


Presentable Royalty

by Schgain



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Black & White | Pokemon Black and White Versions
Genre: Agender Character, Aromantic Characters(s), Bad Future, Bad Parenting, Gen, Gender Neutral Character, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness, Mute Character(s), Neurodivergent Character(s), Other, POV Third Person, Questionable Ruling Practices, Quoiromantic Character(s), Realistic Reactions to Absurd Hypothetical Situations, Templarisms, Unrequited Love, Villain Won, Well said unrequited love is, feel good story of the fucking year, one character mistaking their platonic attraction towards another character as romantic, self worth issues, the exact opposite of a fix fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 02:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4547433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schgain/pseuds/Schgain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're called The Hero of Truth, the Emissary of Reshiram. But no amount of wishing makes that white stone unfurl into its Dragon, and Plasma takes its chance to conquer Unova. N tries to keep a close eye on the former Hero and now False Prophet, but with them struggling to adapt, he's bewildered by their sudden and steady mental decline; in return, they're bewildered by the idea that he's responsible for them.</p>
<p>All in the background of teen drama, Unova struggles to keep control under Plasma's rule.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Colour of Hate

**Author's Note:**

> A new take on the N-Marries-Hero-For-Unova formula, featuring court drama, questionable monarchies, unethical treatment of people and Pokémon, and a realistic depiction of what a cocktail of stir craziness, failure, and self hatred does to a poor teen doing their best. 
> 
> When I wrote this, I had a hard time figuring out which canon of the Gen V games I should use, and also which protagonist would work better: Hilda or Hilbert? Eventually I decided on Pokemon Black, but since this was essentially a reader insert, I decided to make the Hero agender, so anyone reading could project.

"So lieth the Heroes of Truth and Ideals upon their final battle." One of the sages announced with arms outstretched and voice taking advantage of the throne room’s acoustics. 

"Greys, no matter the outcome of our battle, I still like you very much." N's voice was gentle and kind. Greys vaguely noted he had never been truly anything else to them. His hands (soft; he'd never worked a day of labour in his life) were palm-up and outstretched. Unassuming but authoritative. Greys found that they wanted to hit him, though only slightly more than usual. 

"The battle will be hosted tomorrow at dusk, Greys." Said the sage. They nodded, but didn't look over in further acknowledgement. Their gaze was averted on N as well, tense and coiled. Maybe he thought it was in reverence. 

"Under my kingship, you will not be harmed. Take no fear in your stay at my castle." N placated. His hand reached forward to grab Greys's, but they stepped back before the contact could be made. N's gaze drooped. "So be it." His voice refused to harden. Greys mused with limp humor that they'd both be better off with him hating them, instead of this fondness that smeared itself on everything he did, every word he spoke. "You'll find your belongings in your quarters. Would you like my guards to direct you?” Greys didn't verbally respond, but their features answered for them. 

"My lord N," Ghetsis crooned, "it's not wise to let... to let the hero unaccompanied. Find some grunts to show...the hero out." 

Greys didn't dare look at Ghetsis when he spoke, even when he made feeble attempts to go around their pronouns. They stayed with N until a knight tugged on their upper arm (more gently than they had been expecting) and removed them from the throne room. 

\---

 _Those clothes are something else._ Greys didn't say these words verbally, of course, just held in their hands the traditional outfit that had been laid out on the four poster bed. Their Braviary cawed from his perch on the wardrobe. _Don't worry. We can take N even if we can't awaken Reshiram._ It was just their thoughts in what they hoped sounded like the voice of their Pokémon, but it was all the comfort they had. 

_You have plenty of comfort, Greys. We're here with you._

The trainer looked apprehensive at that comment, but as always, said nothing. 

\---

“And so the Hero of Truth has fallen to the Hero of Ideals!” Ghetsis cried triumphantly. “A new world order is now upon Unova!” He gestured, broad and sweeping and authoritative. “Guards, do away with this false prophet.” The plasma grunts stepped forward and tugged them back, earning a cry, no a scream, of terror. Their arm wrenched away long enough to reach out for N with a desperate sob. In retrospect, it was rather pathetic. 

“Wait.” 

The grunts stopped. Ghetsis narrowed his eyes. “My Lord, it’s a danger to have such a creature in your midst. I’ll see to it that they are simply returned to... their hometown.” 

N’s gaze was crystalline and stern. “Greys isn’t a creature. They’re my friend, and they’re a Hero. They have the right to be here.” 

"M-my Lord--!" Ghetsis protested. 

"Sage Ghetsis. Release my friend now." For that sentence his voice grew dangerously low and authoritative, and Greys couldn’t help but feel a blossom of gratitude bloom in their chest. An irrational voice in their head told them that N had saved them from an unpleasant doing-away with. 

Ghetsis let out a sound of frustration as his guards released Greys, who rubbed at the bruise forming on their upper arm. "Thank your King for his mercy!" he snapped at them, and when they didn't reply, the grunt kicked them on the calf so they knelt. 

N's frown deepened. "Enough of that. Greys, come now." He helped them to their feet. "It's alright, don't cry. It'll be okay." His contact grew closer, like the approximation of a hug. They just let him gather them in the awkward embrace, limp and sobbing. "Here, give me your Pokémon." 

Greys let out gross noises that could be taken as signs of deference and refusal through their hitching breath, but N unclipped the bag regardless and let it drop to the floor with an unceremonious clatter. "They will be happy now." He said, but Greys could only wonder about their own happiness. 

-

N's personal visits were seldom; he was busy as king of Unova, and the moments Greys shared with him were diplomatic at the best of times. But when he found his way into their quarters they were on edge, moving like a caged predator, or at the very least, a cornered stray. 

"Who has made you like this?" He asked, and gestured to their cheek, that same approximate affection. The gaze and touch of someone who didn't quite know the nuances of endearment. 

Greys didn't have the voice to say it was him. It was him who had made them like this, ruined them. They didn't have the voice to rant and rave like they wanted to, to say every horrible thing they couldn't. So all Greys did was let out a cry of frustration and lobbed their book at their king. N caught it in a harried fumble, putting it back to order in his hands as he spoke. "Greys, I'm sorry you feel this way. Maybe there will be a time when you stop hurting." His words sounded stilted, but the fucker probably meant them. 

They hated him. 

_Let me go,_ Greys thought and hoped he could read the minds of sad mute kids like he could read the minds of Pokémon. _Let me go and give me back my Pokémon, my friends. You can't trade one caged bird for another._

If N heard, he didn't acknowledge. "Would you like to join me for dinner?"

Greys weighed their options. Usually they had meals delivered to their room, and what N was asking was not an order. But if they didn't oblige, chances were he'd mope and fray and they'd feel bad for disappointing him. So they sighed and clambered off their bed, sliding into their shoes and shuffling over. N beamed. They didn’t mention that the request would always be taken as an order; N probably already knew that his requests were as good as his commands.

He held their hand, fingers entwined with theirs as he swept down the hall. His natural grace was not disturbed by their presence, a shuffling wraith behind him, his second shadow. Every so often he glanced at them, with this look of complete adoration and concern. 

How dare he still have the gall to care for them. A gilded cage was still a cage, and Greys didn't need their jailer to have a kind word for them. 

"What's wrong?" He asked, slowing his steps. 

Greys, predictably, didn't answer. His thumb ran circles over their hand, glancing carefully at their face. 

"That's okay. You don't have to share if you don't want to. Would you like to talk about math instead?"

Greys's lack of response he took as an affirmative. For the stroll to the dining hall he spoke of formulas and perfection. Greys listened to him carefully; there wasn't anything else to do. Not that they understood math in the first place. 

The doors of the dining hall opened with a respectful bow from the guards. N's, they noticed, with their shining silver uniforms. 

"It's in these moments you should feel your Role as a Hero, as such I have felt my role as King to Plasma and Emissary to Zekrom. You are Perfect, Greys. Otherwise Reshiram would not have chosen you." He smiled, that mysterious chatterbox smile. 

Greys did not express their desire to hit him. 

They didn't feel perfect. They could see all their flaws without scrutinizing, knew their weaknesses and insecurities. They had failed as Hero, as Trainer. 

N took his seat at the head of the table in a throne (of course it was a throne, and next to it their own garish seating, much less regal, a monument to live in the shadow of N's splendor) and allowed Greys to sit. Food was placed in front of them, and after Zinzolin gave grace, they were allowed to dig in. 

With little appetite Greys ate, toying with their fork. N had enforced vegetarianism, and the plate's salad was stirred lightly around as only a few tomatoes and croutons were put in their mouth. It wasn't that they minded buneary food, but the setting, the sages, and their own turmoil made everything taste like sand. 

N's hand on their arm made them want to scream. Never could they forget his presence, never could they simply _be_. He was always there like an asterisk after their name; Greys (and N). 

Or maybe they were just the addendum to him. The King (and his pet false prophet). 

The sages gave Greys polite dinnertime inquiries that masked their interrogations. N answered for them, telling the Sages what they wanted to hear. He didn't even have to lie; Greys was already domesticated. 

Do you fulfill your duties to the best of your ability?

_No._

Do you herald the word of our Lord N?

_No._

Are you conscious of all that is asked of you?

 _I will not obey every order given. I will not sugarcoat poison commands, I will not let you sit here and pretend this is okay._

But they did. 

"Yes," N answered for them every time, "of course they are."

Exhausted and angry and fueled by their hate, their humiliation, Greys stood up from the table and walked out. 

"Greys--" N began, but they broke into a run and slammed the door behind them. They'd pay for this outburst, this insubordinance. Let it happen; misconstrued punishment couldn't hurt them more than they already hurt now. As they ran, they looked for a room in which to hide, one where no guards or sages would think to look.


	2. E Mortis, Unum

The servant's quarters were forbidden to Greys, though it wasn't a rule that was terribly enforced. The hero in white gowns shoved past grunts and knights templar, seeking a place of respite. 

They skidded into the back halls, a maze of paths darting through walls and rooms in the castle. In here there were still signs of the Pokémon that maintained the facility- the scratches on the stairs, the shed fur clumps, pawprints in paint on the floor. As they heard the call to find them outside, they traced their fingers over the paw designs. They were that of a watchog. Maybe if they stayed here long enough, a Pokémon would come by?

Greys disregarded that spot of hope; there was no gain in make believe that things would get better. 

It was N, of course, who finally found them, much later and looking almost as bad as they felt. He was missing his crown, his hair was disheveled, and there was a redness to his face that suggested he had been crying. 

Maybe it was by accident, because they could think of no reason why he was back here in the first place, but they also could not think of how long they spent in a cubby, praying no one would bother to check up on them so they could waste away in peace. Maybe it had been days. 

"Greys!" He cried, pulled their limp body into his arms and tangled himself in them. "I thought- That you might've run away. To think, you traversing Victory Road with nothing but your wits?" he gave a shuddering sigh into their shoulder. "No. No harm will befall you. Never again." He leaned back to stare at their face, a hand cupping the cheek not bruised in something approximating pity. 

Greys pulled back when he moved in to kiss them, pressing their hands weakly against his shoulders. 

"You deny my every kindness," he said, eyes somber. "even this? As your king, will you kiss me?"

Greys searched his gaze, for any sign of repent. There was none. 

They removed their hands from his holy shoulders, let him bend down again and kiss. 

Greys didn't kiss back- there was no need. This was the kiss of someone who had only seen it before in movies; it was chaste and soft, a little too searching, expecting something that just wasn't there. 

As their king, they would let him kiss them. No reciprocation. They would let him practice his romantic gestures, let him try to be kind and loving and a beacon of goodness on this sinful earth. 

But Greys was supposed to be Truth, and there was no path he could take to ever make them feel love towards him.

"Will you kiss me back?" N said against the corner of their mouth. 

Greys shook their head, stepped back, tried not to cry, with their sleeves pressed against eyes shut tight. They could live in golden marble squalor, they could lick caviar off N's fingers (metaphorically; they trusted N enough to preserve their dignity and also to not serve caviar), they could let him hold them and say kind things, but they could not lie like this. They couldn't pretend to love someone. 

Greys, not for the last time, wanted to hit N. Wanted to hate N, wanted N to hate them and hurt them like they fucking deserved. Wanted no gentleness, no tender touches, not from someone they didn't love. 

N's fingers found theirs, kissed their bruised knuckles in apology. 

Greys slapped him. 

It was lighter than the fire in them wanted- nothing to hurt the king or, gods forbid, leave a mark. Just to sting, tell him to lay off. Enough was enough. Maybe it would anger him like they so wanted. 

There was a moment of tense silence and absolute stillness. 

When the King spoke, Greys flinched. "You're unwell, Greys," N sighed, "I'll have Anthea and Concordia check on you. May I escort you to your chambers?"

Greys's acquiescence was a lack of verbality only N would be able to understand. With a minute nod he took their wasted form and called for a pair of guards. They knew that N's sisters alone wouldn't be able to help their dilapidated form. 

"Greys, you must do as they say. I fear..." N trailed off as the guards stood in the doorway, passing his Hero off to the duo. "Take care-- they're likely malnourished." 

Take care they did- N's guards were loyal to him and his Hero, showing no unkindness towards Greys as they carted them off to the clinic, where they promptly fell asleep and dreamt fitfull dreams. 

Greys woke up in their bed. 

Their fingers were bandaged individually, sore like the rest of them. N, sprawled asleep in the overstuffed armchair next to their bed. If they had the energy to yell they would. All that got out was a quiet whine. 

"Hero Greys Alethios." 

Greys' head lolled to turn towards the speaker. Ghetsis, looking half-feral, stood at the foot of their bed. 

"Your outburst wasn't taken kindly between us sages. You are lucky N could vouch for you. But what if he can't always be there? If I had my way you'd be put to rot in the dungeons." There were no pretenses in this moment of quiet, no lies to behold in front of his King. Ghetsis’ eye narrowed, and they could see his grip tighten on his cane. 

"The Lord forgives all, Greys Alethios. But I'm just a prophet, so I don't have to." 

"Amen," Greys mouthed, and found the strength to flip off Ghetsis as soon as the seventh sage turned around. 

All things considered, thought Greys, this entire disaster had not gone as wrongly as it could have. So they looked at their bandaged knuckles, and fell asleep once more. 

They had planned to milk their ‘weak and malnourished’ state for all it was worth, an excuse to stay in their chambers and read. But N seemed to have no intentions of leaving; he remained bedside, talking about math and occasionally, biology, bringing them their meals and always touching, brushing his hand along theirs when he could. He was not so brave as before, so Greys didn't bother admonishing him for all the touching. 

It came as a surprise when his next visit was on business, Rood behind N. Greys was more fond of Rood than the other sages, and N clearly had a mission when he stepped in. It was enough for Greys to put down their book and pay attention. 

"Greys, I will be going out for a few days. I must make my rounds of Unova." N's hand rested on top of theirs. "Fear not, no one will harm you."

"She's going with you," Rood said after clearing his throat. "We can't risk him- we can't risk _them_ getting attacked by..." Rood coughed again and let his words trail off. The word there was unspoken, but everyone knew he feared Ghetsis' wrath. "Or being put somewhere they won't receive care." To say he seemed nervous would be an understatement. 

"Greys can hardly travel in their condition!" N protested. He was incorrect, but Greys wasn't about to interrupt that mindset. 

"They won't get any better here, N," Rood said kindly, his hand on N's shoulder. "Some fresh air will do them good. Part of their illness is from getting cooped up, and there will be plenty of our court to keep watch." 

Greys' fingers tangled in the comforter. All their life had been spent letting others speak for them with no qualms, but there was an onslaught of dissatisfaction as these men spoke of them like they weren't directly next to the Hero. 

"Very well," N sighed in defeat. "We head for Opelucid tomorrow. Greys, please pack your things. Rood will help you later." Gentle fingers stroked their hair, and a shake of their head removed stigmata from their locks. 

Enough, enough, enough touching. Did N have to be everywhere, always in contact? Was this sodden, waterlogged excuse for a friendship not enough? He looked at them oddly (did he ever not?) but said no more, pulled away his digits and let them be.

Greys only vaguely wondered what he was thinking about, mostly related to themself. Reshiram, how narcissistic did they have to be to only consider his feelings towards them? Had Greys always been this awful, this paranoid? They glanced up at him, searching, but N had turned himself to the door and strode out, with Rood on his heels. 

It was shallow comfort to know they weren’t the only trained dog N had at his beck and call. With no one around, they cast aside the downy blanket, swinging their legs to sit up. Where their pajama pants rode up, they could see the ghost of scars they had gotten in their journey through Unova. Here, scratches from underbrush, gashes torn by Pokémon too rough-edged to cuddle, faded bruises from Gym Puzzles. They pulled their pant leg down and went to their bureau in an attempt to find clothes fit for travel. While it was unlikely they'd be roughing it, court attire just seemed inappropriate in the outside world. Buttoned up shirts and heavy cloaks were good for the mountains north of Opelucid, but what of mild Castelia? What of Nuvema? Of _home_?

Greys let out a sob, heartache pulling at them so fiercely and suddenly they thought they might rip in two. To be forbidden the companionship of Pokémon was something tragic and painful, a bond eons deep suddenly broken, it was the most heart-wrenching pain they had ever felt. But now, memories of home and of Juniper and gods, Reshiram, their _mother_ washed over them in white hot longing. 

Did mom think her child dead? Had Cheren and Bianca made it home? Had they fought?

_Oh,_ thought Greys, _of course they had fought, at their own expense, for their Pokémon._

Knowledgable Cheren, amiable Bianca, sullen and lonely. No one deserved that. 

(Except them.)

Greys sat on the floor of their room and openly sobbed big, blubbery tears into their hands, now as ever at a loss for what to do.


	3. Ocean, Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dare I say it... Here's where the plot actually starts to kick off. Hope you enjoy!

There's nothing here. 

Their cloak is crusted with salt and blood, sopping wet and cold to the point of painful, but they clutch it close to them nonetheless. The building is frigid, the walls impenetrable and not even a Chandelure can light up the darkness that consumes the wayscape. 

It's cold and dark, and the hall has a pressure to it that makes them think of the sea. They close their eyes and only see neon lights and skyscrapers, try to imagine the smell of salt and ocean breezes.

The image doesn't last long. A lighthouse glows faintly, so faintly, from the end of the hall, and they open their eyes. 

The hall is flooded to their waist, but they can hear it rising as they slosh through, feel themself breathing it in every so often, halfway to drowning. It's clean, at least, clear and smelling fresh. There's no salt- the water isn't from the ocean. 

Just about every door in the hall is locked, and the precious few that aren't lead to places they're not sure are right. The plush furniture has made way to never-ending catwalks and snippets of places:

A foreign city, a chapel, a theatre, a bridge. 

The water is to their chest now and colder, ripples casting frost onto the stone walls. 

When did they start crying?

The water is less clean too, they notice, and papers waft downstream. The ink is smeared and seeping, but words remain. 

"Greys, you're special. You were born to do great things."

Whoever wrote this is right. 

Something billows in the back of their throat, and when they can't keep it down they open their mouth. Water falls from their lips, ice floes forming now that the water is to their shoulders, hovering just above freezing. Dimly, they remember that they can't swim. 

They vomit another burst of water, sobs heaving their chest with breathing ragged. It's at that point where the body can't tell if it's hot or cold, just that the temperature is extreme. 

They look down at their hands. The fingertips are blue, the veins are silver, and when they flex, icicles shoot through their skin, spears of cold with slightly bloodied tips. Their breath manifests as fog in the rapidly cooling air. 

There is another pressure on their throat, and the world turns to steam. Magma leaks out from their teeth, hands reaching up in a vain attempt to restrain themself. The lava spills, pools and their hands catch alight. It doesn't hurt, they burn quietly. 

Another paper floats by, words more smudged than before. A hand reaches out to grab it, and it doesn't look like their own, grey and clawed and missing something. 

"It's time to wake up."

Greys obliged. 

-

Nearly all of Greys' Pokémon journey had been on foot or mount, so it was a new experience to travel on the upper roads reserved for vehicles. A logical conclusion they could have inferred, probably, but they had kept their mind carefully blank this whole time they sat in the motorized coach. N of course sat next to them, and Rood on the left side of the coach, reading quietly. They hadn't thought to bring an extra book (the one in their lap long since completed) and had opted instead to lean their head on the window and watch the Appalachian mountains go by. 

It was snowing. Had they really spent such a long time in N's castle? The lump in their throat grew. They had wasted months in that penitentiary, for what?

Greys rolled down the window. A breath of crisp, cold air hit them in the face, fantastic and brisk. It wasn't until Rood cleared his throat that they put the window up and went back to sulking. The suburbs of Opelucid drew near, snowcapped towers of reflective black glass. Through the haze of snow it was hard to tell how far away the city was, but they expected to arrive shortly. 

Maybe they'd get to see Drayden. Greys could talk to him, because he and Iris knew sign language (Plasma did not know they had this skill, and Greys did not intend to indulge them). Greys could find someone who'd _listen_ , gods, and maybe even the man would take them away from Plasma. 

Greys quashed that betraying thought. They didn't need hope right now; they needed a plan. It wasn't often that pessimism would work in their favour, but to cover all their bases, it was infallible. Fear was a motivator, after all, and the fear of things getting even worse was enough to make them think long and hard every step of the way. 

"Greys," N said, startling them out of their reverie, "get ready. We'll be stopping soon." He held himself with that childlike curiosity he did before, all those months ago when he was just an enigmatic rival and Greys was just trying to see the world. For now, he wasn't King, but a guide. 

Greys wrinkled their nose at him. N smiled back, clearly excited to be out in the world again. The coach slowed, and even though the weather wasn't favorable, Greys could see people turning and stopping to stare at the hearse. There was no question as to who owned it, after all. 

The footman exited first. "It is my esteemed honor to announce our King N Harmonia, first of his name, Saviour of Unova and Emissary to Zekrom."

N was already donning the crown. 

It didn't suit him, thought Greys. Someone gasped as the King stepped out and a gentle murmur rippled throughout, followed by polite applause. These people had every right to hate him and yet they said nothing? 

(The irony was not lost on Greys.)

"Accompanying our esteemed King is Rood of the Seven Sages..."

Rood clutched his robes tight as he got out of the coach to stand by N, scanning the still silent crowd. Greys thought he may be looking for someone. 

"... And Prince Greys Alethios." 

A new kind of silence descended over the crowd, one with which they were very familiar. It was the silence of an unexpected development, and of general surprise that Greys was in the vicinity. 

Even so, 'Prince'? Greys didn't recall receiving that title, but it was possible that was deliberate. They stepped out of the car, looking all the worse for wear under the scrutiny of the populace. 

A woman spoke, tentative and lacking the careful indifference she had displayed before. The child in her arms turned to look at the newcomers with his thumb in his mouth. "Prince Greys? Are you alright?"

They looked away from her. How could they ever respond? How cruel, to askance of someone who can't speak, to force a mirror upon one who has no face. 

"Greys?" N's voice felt like snow as it broke them out of their reverie yet again. They didn't turn to look at him. "If you would like to see the city, take a guard with you." 

Greys' gaze flickered to the guards on standby, some armed with Emolga and some with Herdier. 

"It's our duty under our Lord N to do all he asks of us, including obeying directives given by you, so long as it doesn't, through action or inaction, harm another member of the Court of Plasma." Greys recognized the speaker as the captain of this branch, but for now her name escaped them. Instead they just made a beckoning motion; anything to get out of the scrutiny of this crowd. 

"Captain Argentum at your service, Prince Alethios." She gave a small bow as she stepped forward. "It would be my pleasure to accompany you through Opelucid."

Greys cast one last uncertain look towards N, but he was already busying himself with the people. Rood was nowhere to be found. 

The crowd parted politely to let the Prince and the Captain of the Guard pass, and with all eyes on Greys, they felt a discreet gloved hand wrap around their own. 

\---

"I mean no disrespect when I ask this, my prince- but do you care what others think and say about you?" Captain Argentum's hand gently squeezed theirs. 

Did they care? Oh, so so much. They heard their unkind words and accusatory glances- sick in the head, sick in the heart, too weak-willed to be a Hero or even a Trainer, too headstrong to stop trying. Something that can't even talk and hardly does much else. 

Greys shrugged. 

"I'm sorry. That question must be inappropriate." 

They shrugged again. It wasn't something they beat themself up over. 

"Do you know where you're going?" Argentum asked, but quickly amended with "not that I doubt your directive, but I would like an idea."

Greys sighed. She had to be interesting, didn't she? It would be easier if every footsoldier under the Sages were cold and just following orders, if they didn’t have to see each of their personalities, if they could think of them as no more than the enemy. 

Greys stared at Argentum’s thick, curly hair and her beautiful brown skin, and any resentment they felt was towards themself. To answer her question, they used their free hand to point down the street, towards the Mayor’s house. Argentum frowned. 

“I don’t think it wise for you to visit Mayor Drayden, my Prince.” she said. 

Greys scowled at her, letting go of her hand and shoving their hands in their pockets. Back when they had been the brightest Trainer of their age, money had been no object. Now it was even less so, but they had saved up all their earnings for times like this. Bribery could open a lot of doors, after all. They held between their index and middle finger their wallet.

 

“Greys,” she said, “I don’t want your money.” With a firm hand she pushed their arm down. Snow had landed on her face, giving the image of white freckles on her dark skin. The Captain sighed and turned to look at the mayoral house once more, glancing down the path the duo had come in the same action. The street was empty and quiet. 

“I’ll do what I can.” Her voice was sharp as she averted her gaze, and Greys nearly flinched. “You go talk to him.” 

With a wordless cry of delight, Greys threw their arms around her neck in somethine resembling an embrace.


	4. Winchell

Greys could feel the metal doorknob through their gloves, the longer they held it the colder they were getting. It had once been the case that a door was always open and welcome for a travelling Trainer, but they didn’t know the nuances of the old world at the best of times, let alone the protocols of society that Plasma had inflicted. It was perfectly plausible that locking the door and keeping the blinds drawn was now safety, but if Greys had to bet, Drayden’s role as mayor would make sure he answered the door.

If only they could find the courage to knock or turn the knob. 

_The quicker you do this, the quicker you’ll get out of the cold,_ whispered something in the back of their head. Grey’s eyes peeled away from the doorknob long enough to look behind them. No one but Argentum, who was walking away and much too far to whisper. 

_And oh, how you hate the cold, don’t you?_

Greys turned the knob. The door was unlocked, likely a habitual decision. A rush of warm air greeted them as they stomped the snow off their boots and stepped inside. 

“I don’t take kindly to Team Plasma stepping inside my home unannounced. Where’s your warrant?” It was Drayden, holding in one hand a newspaper and in the other something glimmering gold. It wasn’t a good angle, but Cecil remembered that he used to box, and so guessed that he owned a pair of brass knuckles. 

They put up their hands in surrender, one hand drifting down to unwrap their scarf and pull off their hat. Blue eyes and white hair stared at the man who was once Gym Leader, and something like fire lit up behind his eyes.

Greys awkwardly fingerspelled ‘hello’. 

Drayden’s face went from fierce to confused then to astonishment. He staggered forward on a leg that suggested old injury, newspaper fluttering to a heap on the ground. His hands found their shoulders, holding the Prince at arm's length. The grip was broad and rough around the edges but full of fondness and relief. 

"Well, I'll be. Greys Alethios is back in business." he whispered. "Lord on high, what's brought you here?" He brushed rapidly melting snow from them, leading them inside. His home smelled like coffee and faintly of tobacco or potpourri, was warm nearly to a fault and the quiet drone of a crosstransceiving radio muttered quieter words. 

The television Drayden once had was gone. Greys looked at the spot where it used to be as fingers undid cape and coat. 

"Iris got rid of it. We couldn't prove it, but we thought they were monitoring us through the set." Drayden said, fixing up two mugs in the kitchenette. Greys frowned. Were they really so readable?

(Maybe they ought to have told him that Iris had been right. Greys didn't know the specifics of it, but there was some "Orwellian bullshit" going on.) 

Drayden chuckled, even when Greys' outerwear dropped to the floor in a pile of unfanfared fabric. It was low and deep. 

Like the ocean. 

No. Drayden was warm and governing and strong. He wasn't vast and cold and terrifying. 

_What would you know of a dragonsman anyways?_ said the voice. Greys ignored it; intrusive thoughts were not foreign to them. 

The mayor walked over and handed a mug to Greys. It was hot chocolate, warm ceramic pressed into their cupped palms. They hadn't asked. What possessed him to give them something? 

Their eyes darted to a set of photos on the wall. Of course; he had been a father once, and maybe even a grandfather. 

He had Iris too, wherever she was. 

"Greys." Drayden said. He was using a voice of business. 

Of anxiety.

They looked back at him and took a long sip of their hot chocolate. 

"I don't know where you've been. But guessing by your clothes, it's doubtful you've been anywhere pleasant. Do you know what has happened to Unova?" His face, grim. His knuckles, white around his mug of black coffee. 

They nodded. How could they not? They hear the words that N doesn’t: Traffic increased on motorist roads, lack of import and export, increased casualties from people travelling routes unarmed, an increase in labor jobs that worked too hard and for too little. 

_It’s called scarcity._

Greys glanced to the air next to them. No one, of course, was there. 

“The battle is not over yet,” said Drayden, “and we can still fight. Do you still have your Crosstransceiver?” They shook their head no; of course not. Ghetsis had made sure they could not experience anything beyond the castle walls. Drayden swore. “I’ll see if I can get you a new one before you go. You’ll need the contact with the outside world.”

Greys looked into their hot chocolate before taking another sip, feeling an insatiable urge to curl up under a piece of furniture. 

“Greys.” said Drayden. 

They looked up. 

“You are still a Hero in the heart of Unova.” His hand clapped on Greys’ shoulder. “The Legend Badge proves this. I have faith in you.” To that, Greys furrowed their brow and gave a quiet laugh. It was such a ludicrously fatherly thing to say. 

( _We all have faith in you._ )

“How long are you staying in Unova?” asked the Mayor, downing the last of his coffee. “A week?” 

Greys shrugged. They hadn’t bothered to pay attention, but likely no more than a few days. Tentatively, they held up four fingers, but then shrugged again. Drayden nodded; he had been one of the best at understanding Greys. 

When a knock on the door resounded, Drayden sighed. “I suppose that’s your cue to leave? It’s been a pleasure seeing you again, Greys. I wish you only the best.” 

They took one last gulp from their hot chocolate and wiped their mouth on the back of their hand while Drayden took the mug. 

“Oh, and if anyone asks?” Drayden paused on his way to the kitchenette, half-turning back to Greys. “This never happened. Greys, your nose is bleeding.” Drayden quirked an eyebrow. “Good luck, Greys Alethios.” 

They touched their fingers to their nose; it indeed came away bloody. With no words left to say on his part and no words to begin with on theirs, they frowned and left the Mayor’s home. 

"You don't look well." Argentum said in greeting. 

Greys agreed. 

"Well, the King wants to have dinner with you." Eager for a subject change, she rubbed her hands together, gloved though they were. “It's supposed to be the two of you."

A groan bubbled up from the back of Greys' throat. Argentum's carefully neutral expression went incredulous. 

"You don't want to attend?"

Greys accidentally made eye contact. There were snowflakes stuck to her long eyelashes. They wheezed and looked hastily away, burying the lower half of their face in their scarf. 

"I thought you were his favourite." Greys nodded with another helpless shrug. She hummed, and laid her hand over theirs. "If... If you like, I can see who's on guard duty and swap." Argentum cleared her throat. "If the Prince so wishes-- where are your gloves!" she cried, interrupting herself as she picked up Greys' hand in both of hers. 

Their fingers were purplish at the tips. They hadn't been outside that long; what could have caused that? It didn't hurt, but it was possible that Greys was too cold to feel pain. They turned their hand from side to side as if to examine it.

Captain Argentum swore as she pulled off her own gloves and slid them on Greys. They gave her a surprised look in thanks. What a selfless thing, they thought. 

"Forgive my outburst, Prince Greys." She glanced away for a moment, trying to find her words as she put her hands in her pockets. "It wasn't becoming of me." Gone was the casual tenderness. 

With no words to give her, Greys instead laid their hand on her shoulder. When Argentum glanced back at them, they offered her a weak smile. She smiled back, teeth like a military cemetery. 

"Let's get you back to our King."


	5. Maine

“Hey, Greys?” 

Greys lifted their head from the hand it was resting in to turn to Argentum. She was standing in parade rest next to the couch. They had offered (with a curiously raised eyebrow) for her to sit, but the knight had refused. Weird.

The two were currently occupying Greys’ suite, due to N being suddenly occupied at the time of dinner. This left Greys not only grumpy for having plans being cancelled on them, to now being grumpy _and_ hungry.

“Ah, I should probably call you Prince Greys, right? I’m not sure how to… Well. You’re very different from Our Lord N. By which I mean…” She broke form to tuck a curl behind her ear. Greys’ stormy disposition evaporated when she chuckled nervously, eyes darting around the room before finally stopping at Greys. “You don’t seem like God. You seem like a person.” 

That was the greatest compliment Greys was going to get. 

“Are you really a descendant of the Founding Brothers? How far back does your lineage go?” 

Greys shrugged. They weren’t even sure if that was the case; for all they knew it could be a lie the Sages made up for publicity. Argentum rounded the couch's armrest and sits next to Greys. For a brief flash, they looked into her eyes: dark brown, so dark they couldn't tell where her pupil begins. 

She laid a hand on their cheek. "Does N think you're a person?"

Greys sighed. Argentum was so beautiful and Argentum was so different, but they knew what this was. They were so desperate for kindness that when experiencing the tiniest lick of decency, they thought somebody loved them. Their hand rested against hers before pulling it from their face. Greys' fingers intertwined with hers. 

There was no love at first sight. There was no love at second sight. Love took time, and love took work. Greys threw their head back and laughed, the voiceless wheezing they always mustered. They didn't know how Argentum would take that, but they knew if she were their friend she'd understand. 

"You like stories, right?" Argentum asked after a long silence. Greys turned to look at her and cocked an eyebrow. Where had she heard that?

(It was absolutely true, but that was beyond the point.)

"I'll see if I can tell you a tale before dinner. Wanna know how I became Captain of the Guard?" She was grinning; obviously this was a story she was very eager to tell. 

Greys leaned inward, nodding fervently. 

“Well, this is how it happened…” 

-

“No matter what happens, Jojo, I still love you.” Hands, dark hands, tangle in the fur of the Cincinno. The white and grey fur isn’t stained red; the Nurse had said his bleeding was internal. She thinks maybe it’s poetic? He looks fine on the outside, not even in pain. But on the inside…

No, it isn’t poetic. It’s just sad. 

“What happened here?” says a new voice in a strange accent that she can’t place. She manages to pull her face away from Jojo to stare at the boy, a few years older than her. He’s playing with the square bracelets that adorn his arms, and whenever he can shoots glances at the ailing Pokemon. He smiles at her, and Argentum falls in love instantly. 

“He got really hurt during training. They said it was a blow to the spine…” she stares, for a moment, at Jojo, but turns back to the boy. “He might not walk again.” 

The boy is looking at Jojo too. “And this happened… Because of a battle?” 

“Well,” says Argentum in a voice full of regret and strained with the urge to cry, “Yes, but-”

“There may be an alternative, to your training and his hurt. Would you like to know?”

He smiles again, and…  
-

Argentum trailed off.

Her Prince, fast asleep and leaning on her shoulder, their salt and pepper hair sticking up in all directions. Their lips were chapped from the endless cold and them picking at the skin till bleeding. Argentum sighed and stood, at a loss for what to do. The dinner… Lord N would be disappointed. But the Prince was clearly tired, enough to fall asleep mid-story.

_Forgive me, Lord N,_ thought Argentum, before wrapping her arms around the Prince’s torso and carting them off to the bedroom. She wasn’t weak- Along with her Pokemon, she had her own drills and training- and the Prince’s own skill in hiking had been traded for what Sage Giallo had once described as “aristocratic lethargy”. The muscles were still there, of this Argentum was sure. But the Prince (bless their eternal soul) spent their days draped not unlike a crocheted throw blanket across the overstuffed furniture in the castle. Perhaps, Argentum mused, they would even sigh dramatically to no one in particular. The thought made her break out in a grin as she messily shoved the Prince under the covers. This was why she wasn’t a maidservant. 

Her fingers tangled together, sighing. The Prince looked unwell. 

The Prince _always_ looked unwell. 

Nothing she could do about it right now. Argentum gathered her wits and closed the door quietly behind her. She took a brief moment to fiddle the red band that held back her thick, natural curls, before deciding not to dwell on it and throwing up her hood. 

She hoped that N would not be too mad as she stepped out of the suite and into the hallway. She had for a moment expected grunts to line the halls, but it was empty and silent save for the thrum of the heating system. She stared briefly at the abstract art that adorned all hotel walls before heading for the elevator.

“Time is an illusion,” Sage Giallo had once said during her training, “mealtime, doubly so.” Argentum, at the time, had thought him joking. It was a nonsense phrase made to sound philosophical. 

Now, alone and headed towards a dinner that was not for her, she thought the phrase even stupider than before. Stupid like the man that had said it. 

...Maybe that was being unfair. She didn’t know the Sages any more personally than any Grunt, after all. But Giallo had overseen most of her training until she pulled herself to the top, bent but not broken and stronger than ever. 

She stopped at the door to N’s suite. The sound of music drifted from it, something quiet and tinny. With a gloved hand and parted resolve, she knocked on the door, prepared for being second best. 

N answered it. At first he was overjoyed, with a smile like electricity that fell as soon as he saw Argentum was alone. 

“Greys couldn’t come.” she said.

“I can see that.” he replied.

There’s a moment’s pause.

“Come in.” he offered, and she did. Argentum could practically hear the train of thought: _She’ll have to do, I wish Greys were here, what’s wrong with them?_

She stares at N’s profile. The short nose, the green eyes and greener hair, the majesty of his stance and the regality of his authority. This was the man she had dedicated herself to. 

She’d had to work twice as hard to get half the attention he gave anyone else. She’d worked herself to bleeding, to tears, and here he came encompassed by his infatuation for a Prince who didn’t even want to be here. 

Did she resent Greys for taking his attention? 

No, she found. No. She did not resent them for her jealousy. In fact, every thought of them was fond. Did she resent N, then? 

No. She could not hate her King. 

“Philos.” He broke her out of her reverie. “How was your outing with Greys?” 

She shrugged, scornful of the use of her first name but not his inherent icebreaker. “They are remarkably good company.” 

N nodded his agreement. What would he know? Argentum had only been with Greys a short while, but as Captain of the Guard had carefully watched them during her rounds. With N, Greys was as unresponsive as the stone that bore Reshiram. Then again, maybe N was just not good at reading people. Or maybe he was just in denial. Argentum loved him, but her bad mood made it difficult to find him faultless.

“Feel free to eat,” said N, gesturing to the dinner his serfs had set out. 

“Are you going to eat, m’Lord?” Argentum asked. 

N paused, but nodded. “Yes.” he decided, and made his way to the table. Argentum eased into the seat across from him. The meal was barely warm, but she found time to mentally recite a quick grace before digging in. 

“How is your training going? Do you like your position?” He asked. Argentum nearly sighed. 

“As Captain of the Guard?” she said. “I love it. I love what I do and what I stand for, and I love doing it for you. This is probably bad dinnertime conversation.” she laughed, a little helplessly, and hastily shoved lasagna into her mouth to avoid speaking. 

“You love doing it for me?” N seemed touched. It brought warmth to Argentum’s chest. “For what, in return?”

“I don’t know.” said Argentum honestly with a shrug. “I don’t think I’m doing it for love, or money, or really anything. I guess…” She hummed and looked off from her King.

N waited patiently for her to continue.

“I guess that… As long as I have a big fucking sword, it doesn’t matter if anyone loves me or not.” 

-

This…

This is…

This is just a 

Tad

Ridiculous. 

( They're drowning again, the water heavy, their breathing ragged and their winter clothes and woven cape are sodden; they weigh them down like an anchor. 

They can't surface- a thick sheet of ice covers the sea. The deep and the dark is no place for a wild flame. Were they a flame to begin with?

Their arms are tired, they have no more energy to fruitlessly expire. 

Reshiram, it's cold. ) 

The Pidove that came by the house to eat bread and berries aren't here today. It's cold, and they pull their coat closer to their body. 

Funny, the hydrangeas are still blooming. The leaves are white with frost, but the heads of flowers are still purple. 

Is this a memory? Or a dream?

Dr. Juniper is hanging up lights, and Mother is doing the same. They can see out on Route One, Bianca and Cheren tossing snowballs at each other. 

Dad's not coming home for the holidays, mom had said. She didn't explain why, but she asked them to try not to be too disappointed if there are less presents this year. 

This is a memory. 

They're soaking wet, they're shaking, with a cup of hot chocolate pressed into their hands. An electric blanket is thrown over them while the Doctors Juniper call the Accumula General Hospital. Their clothes had to be thawed and yanked off their body; the pajamas they've been given are thick and too big and smell like peppermint. 

When mom comes over she looks like she's expecting a frozen cadaver. Bright blue eyes stare up at her, more alive than ever (and closer to death than ever. They often coincide, they muse), and her hysterics are in relief instead of mourning. 

"So soon after their dad's accident too," someone half-whispers. "Two drownings this month already. Good that they were pulled out from under the ice in time."

"Like father, like son." Someone replies. The voice is so, so distant, and they feel like they're hearing through water again. 

This... Isn't a memory. 

( They had ventured farther out onto Route One than allowed. The sea stretches far, and with the overcast sky the water is black with white, violent crests. 

They fall over the railing. 

The waves are harsh and keep them down, their limbs flail against ice floes and sharp rocks. They scream for help and inhale saltwater. 

They find a white sweater laden with ice, empty and damning. 

There's a body, ten feet away, barely breathing. 

Next to the deluged soul, an Oshawott, frantically pulling them from the frigid surf. )

“Oh, _God_ ,” someone whispers. It’s as much as a plea as it is askance. “Oh God, it’s cold.” 

-

Greys shot up with a yell. The room spun for a second, still frigid, and then warmth melted the edges and everything came into focus. 

They were alone.


End file.
